


Infliction (Confliction)

by critical_shot_to_the_heart (RainingStarWars)



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Injury, Caleb Widogast Deserves Nice Things, Caleb Widogast Has Issues, Caleb Widogast Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Caleb Widogast Has Self-Esteem Issues, Caleb Widogast Needs a Hug, Caleb Widogast-centric, Canon-Typical Violence, Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Gen, Heavy Angst, Hugs, Hurt/Comfort, I apologize in advance, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Intrusive Thoughts, Literal Sleeping Together, Mighty Nein as Family, Platonic Cuddling, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Nott | Veth Brenatto, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Self-Loathing Caleb Widogast, Team as Family, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Violent Thoughts, also fully usable homebrew spell in fic! feel free to use, anyway it's really angsty until the end, my oh my look at all these lovely tags, then it gets super soft, this is my first CR fic so just know I love Caleb and the Nein and I love to hurt them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:01:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27221629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RainingStarWars/pseuds/critical_shot_to_the_heart
Summary: It's just a few little lacerations to his palm. He can manage that. There's nothing to be troubled with. The others don't need to know. It'll end soon, and Caleb will forget all about it.or:Caleb is hit with a spell that causes the affected individual an overwhelming urge to inflict pain, and the only individuals around are his family and himself.
Relationships: Caleb Widogast & Everyone, The Mighty Nein & Caleb Widogast
Comments: 16
Kudos: 219





	Infliction (Confliction)

**Author's Note:**

> The spell I created for the purposes of this fic is actually fully usable in-game! Please see the end of the fic for an official description and stats I have created, and I hope you enjoy!
> 
> WARNINGS: Please proceed with caution if any of the following trouble you: explicit self-harm; self-loathing; graphic intrusive thoughts, PTSD flashbacks.

Caleb Widogast is well associated with magic—it’s his entire world anymore, the reason he presses on, how he protects those he cares for… it is how he hopes to atone for the sins of his past.

He knows the feeling of energy crawling through his veins and jumping between perfectly posed fingers, and he knows the feeling of a psychic arrow lodging itself in the back of his mind. He knows how it feels to be at both the giving and the receiving end of a spell, and he knows how to exploit that knowledge to his benefit and his enemy’s disadvantage.

He knows the internal workings of a spell, the source from which different spellcasters’ magic is derived from, and he knows all the complex structures of reality and how they can be bent with his power.

Caleb is well associated with magic, and he knows that something’s not right as soon as he locks eyes with the beaten mage the Alfield guard are currently hauling away from the Mighty Nein.

He’s a puny little man, and Nott remarks that he looks to be squishier than Caleb is. Caleb takes in the long, dark matted hair, the torn and ragged coat now draping off the man’s frail figure by the elbows, and the dirt splattered across his face, some of which had been there to begin with, and some had been added when Beauregard had slammed his head into the ground with her foot. He grimaces, seeing himself—his _old_ self, the person he had been upon first meeting the rest of the Nein—behind the now swollen shut eye and bloodied lip now cracked and gently waterfalling down the chin. Given, Caleb never attempted to steal a fairly well-recognized hero Wizard’s spellbook off his figure as he wandered down the street, but he had stolen other things, and he probably had been beaten to a similar condition as this younger man not just once before.

Beauregard had quickly put a stop to the attempted theft, so Caleb had hardly had time to react to the errant firebolt that just nearly burned past his friend’s shoulder from the ground. The nearby guardsmen had made fast work of rushing over and hauling the man to his feet roughly, prepared to drag him away to the city dungeons for attacking the very people who had saved their town so many months back. Now there he was, glaring over his shoulder and casting a look towards Caleb that makes the wizard’s stomach churn uncomfortably. He recognizes that look but doesn’t know what to make of it, especially as he glances down to catch something clutched tight in the captive’s right hand and blood dripping from fingertips.

He’s certain that a spell has been cast, but as he feels no sensation of being affected, he can’t be sure. He looks around at his friends, now turning the encounter into a laugh about underestimating the Mighty Nein as they begin to saunter off towards the nicest inn they can afford, and Caleb relaxes a bit when he notes that none of them appear to look discomforted or out of character.

But only just.

Caleb still makes sure to keep an eye on the party and take note of any changes in his own thoughts as they gather around a table together. They indulge in drinks, food, and each other’s company as they discuss the events of the day, their plans on what should be done next, and the progress they had made in working to break Nott’s— _Veth’s_ —curse. It doesn’t take long for Caleb to cease worrying about the street mage, aware that all the spells which he is familiar with would have gone into effect by now. They’re alright. They’re fine. He can relax.

Caleb smiles as he allows himself to be drawn into the conversation going on around him. Beauregard jokes and playfully punches his arm, Fjord laughs and slaps him on the back in a good-natured way, Jester playfully pokes his cheek as she bites down on her lower lip with her fangs and attempts to doodle male anatomy on his exposed forearm… Nott holds his hand under the table all the while. He continues to smile.

They’re fine. He’s happy.

Nothing is the matter.

The sunset that had been present upon their venture to the inn has long since turned into a starry and moonlit night, and it isn’t much longer until warm and enthusiastic conversation dulls under the presence of yawns and drooping eyelids. At eleven thirty-six, the Mighty Nein retreat to their three purchased rooms—Jester, Beau, and Yasha to the first, Fjord and Caduceus to the second, and Caleb and Nott to the third.

It normally would be a wonderful night to stay up late and do some homework before bed, but Caleb finds himself particularly exhausted this evening despite the rather uneventful day—that isn’t to mention that his head hurts a bit. So, he undresses into more comfortable sleeping attire, waiting before he climbs into bed so that Nott can scurry beneath the covers and situate herself. Once she appears comfortable, he crawls in beside her, pulling the blankets up to his chin as the goblin girl next to him presses against his chest and wraps clawed hands around his bicep. He can feel her warm breath gentle against his skin, and it makes him feel warm, too.

“Goodnight Cay, sleep well,” she speaks softly, brushing a hand through his hair before moving it back to hug his arm.

Caleb smiles fondly as he shuts his eyes, prepared to drift into what he can only hope is peaceful sleep—interestingly, the pleasant afternoon he’s had gives him hope that he will.

“Goodnight, _Liebling_ ,” he whispers back, hugging her small form close.

Caleb counts the seconds until he falls asleep.

_Eins, zwei, drei, vier, fünf, sechs, sieben, acht..._

* * *

Nott screams as he envelops them both in fire beneath the blankets.

She doesn’t scream long, because she’s nothing more than a blackened husk within moments. He continues to let them burn, though, long after silence envelops the room other than the crackling of fire.

Even though he’s surrounded by the blinding light, still his body refuses to deteriorate to ashes like the woman now dusting his arms.

Then he’s standing outside of that house, wagon blocking his path, more screams filling the air. He’s supposed to scream himself here—he knows he should run forward despite the pulls of the young man and woman standing beside him and try desperately to save what’s already been lost. That’s what happened. That’s what was supposed to happen. Instead, he stands there, watching. Burning.

_Enjoying._

* * *

Caleb inhales sharply as his eyes snap open. He’s lying on his back, covers kicked off and sprawled uncomfortably. The room is nearly pitch black without the presence of windows, so he struggles to make out much more than the outline of furniture against the wall and the barest glimmer of moonlight sneaking in beneath the door to the hallway. He’s paralyzed, unable to move, _scared_ to move, so he holds his breath. Listens.

Nott releases a soft snore that sounds more like a snort from beside him.

He sighs shakily and runs a hand down his face.

She’s fine. He’s fine. _She’s_ fine. Everything is okay.

No, it isn’t okay.

Caleb isn’t okay. He knows he’s not okay. His skin is on fire ( _he watches her crumble to ash in his arms—_ ), and his head is pounding, pounding, pounding. He immediately thinks back to the street mage from earlier. How long ago? Caleb calculates—it’s one forty-two, they encountered the man at seven twenty-seven—approximately six hours and fifteen minutes. He _had_ cast a spell. That was the only explanation. But what did it _do_? What did it do to _him_?

He sits up, careful not to disturb Nott, and moves his legs to rest over the side of the bed. He clutches his head in his hands and grips at his hair. What’s the _matter_ with him?

Caleb has never encountered a spell quite like this before, but he is fairly certain that it must be something relating to the School of Enchantment. Nothing like Feeblemind, definitely not, but something that feels oddly akin to that. It’s not Transmutation, so he isn’t as familiar with all the spells in that school, but even so, he knows quite a bit and it is particularly bothering him that he _doesn’t_ recognize this. He isn’t particularly fond of Enchantment and manipulation of the mind as is ( _“Light them up, pretty”_ _echoes in the back of his mind—_ ) and this is only furthering his distaste for such magic.

He glances over his shoulder to look at Nott now. It takes him some effort, and his hands tremble as he adjusts his position, as an image of her body engulfed in flames replays itself in his mind over and over. He looks at her, and she is asleep still—asleep and peaceful. Her eyes are gently shut as she’s turned to face him, her mouth opened to reveal jagged teeth that would be frightening on anyone but her as she breathes rhythmically with the rise and fall of her chest. She is alive and definitely not burning in his grasp.

She’s fine. He’s fine.

The sensation strikes him like a slap across the face, except it’s instead consuming his entire body and twitching his fingers to life.

Caleb sees himself— _himself_ —reach out and wrap his hands around the throat of the woman he loves more than anyone in the world. She can’t even gasp as he holds her tight in his clutches, the air quickly escaping her lungs and refusing to return with the pressure around her neck. Caleb is not strong, but Nott is small, and he easily crushes her windpipe with his adrenaline-fueled attack. She is wheezing and sputtering, and it is not long until her eyes roll back into her head and she is _dead_ , and it feels so _good_.

As soon as the scene flashes through his mind, Caleb is in the floor and gasping in panicked breaths. No, he _wouldn’t_ do that. He _couldn’t_ do that. Not to her. Not to anyone. Well, Ikithon maybe, and possibly anyone who would dare to lay a hand on the people he cared about (did that include himself now?) but in general _no_. He would never and he could never.

So why did he _want_ to?

 _Scheiße,_ he _wanted_ to. What did that filthy mage do to him?

Caleb can feel a stuffiness in his head similar to that of a cold, like he has cotton shoved in his ears and his sinuses are swollen and he can’t breathe. He can’t think clearly. He tries to count the seconds passing, but he’s too overwhelmed and he’s horrified to realize he can’t concentrate enough to think what the time is. Unconsciously, because he barely feels conscious, he starts to dig his nails into his forearms out of panic. The pale and scarred skin feels rough beneath his fingers, but he continues to scratch and grind until old wounds reopen once more.

And as the metallic scent of blood reaches his nostrils and he can feel the uncomfortable caking of red beneath his nails, suddenly there is sweet _clarity_. It’s one fifty-three. His name is Caleb Widogast, _not_ Bren. He is a part of the Mighty Nein. A street mage cast a spell on him.

And pain, _causing_ pain, makes it better.

Stopping his scratching makes his head feel like it’s going to cloud over once again, so he continues to tear at flesh, albeit a bit less intensely as things come into focus.

Caleb is smart enough about and familiar enough with magic to recognize what this spell is doing now. He doesn’t know the name, doesn’t know its origins, but he has a fairly good idea what it does. The intrusive thoughts of harming those around him, the easing of distress upon the infliction of pain (even if it _is_ on himself) … he’s been enchanted, and until the spell wears off (which gods know when that’ll be, it varies every time) or someone heals him with a spell like _Greater Restoration_ , Caleb will be struck with the urge to _harm_. Who knows how often? Who knows when? It could be every four hours or every four minutes for all he knows, but it’s going to be there, and to not act may mean the breaking of his mind knowing this sort of spell. And who knows what he may do if that happens…

But he can’t hurt Nott. He can’t hurt any of his friends. He can’t just hurt some innocent creature to satisfy the bloodlust. They aren’t going to be fighting anything tomorrow should things go according to plan, either.

Caleb digs deeper.

Eventually, the fog completely subsides, and Caleb slows his movement until he’s no longer ripping at old wounds. And to his great relief, the fog does not return. Whatever it was, it must be over now. He exhales shakily and goes limp with his back pressed against the wall, his arms stinging and feeling sticky and warm. He looks at Nott on the bed, still sleeping and oblivious to his strife—and no horrid images flash through his mind. Good.

Good.

Perhaps the spell has ended now. Maybe since he acted on the urges it stirred within, it has dissipated. It’s not like he can tell, though, which frustrates Caleb immensely about this type of magic. It could come and go over the course of weeks for all he knows, and that’s all he needs right now. He’s supposed to be focused on helping Nott, on reuniting her with her family, not—not… _this_. He will tell Caduceus that he needs _Greater Restoration_ in the morning. Until then…

It’s still hard to see in the darkness, but Caleb can clearly make out the glistening there and the blurred but ugly sight of skin torn open in thin lines. Great. How will he explain this to Jester and Caduceus? It’s not like he hasn’t clawed away when he was reliving old memories before, but everyone wanted to _talk_ about things when this happened, and the last thing Caleb wants to do right now is talk about things. How can he admit the nature of the spell to his friends? How can he tell Nott that he had wanted to… to…

Caleb stands, hastily but careful to make as little sound as possible as he does and makes his way for the door. He doesn’t allow it to creak as he exits the room and shuts it gently behind him. He glances around the dim hallway. No one appears to be awake or out of their respective rooms, which is good. He can easily reach the washroom undetected.

The room is small and not fanciful in any way, but it matters little to Caleb. He walks to the washbasin sitting with old lukewarm water and shoves his arms inside, hissing slightly as his injuries sting upon impact. He begins to scrub, first his arms where the worst of the wounds are, working to wash away the blood and grime and careful not to pick away at the scabs now forming there. He then moves to his hands and fingernails, using a bar of soap to get beneath his nails and remove the caked blood there.

It takes a while, and he feels raw by the end of it, but upon a new inspection of his body, Caleb is satisfied to find that, other than the presence of some ghastly new scars that will eventually heal, he looks no worse for wear.

With that, he feels it may be safe to return to bed.

When he re-enters the bedroom he and Nott share, the goblin girl is still fast asleep, which makes him smile momentarily. He stands in the doorway and watches her in the darkness. Does he want to sleep beside her now? Would it be safe? Disgust bubbles up in the pit of Caleb’s stomach, directed at himself for ever envisioning hurting her. He always knew he was despicable, but why did he have to be targeted with a spell that only enhanced that feature?

When Nott seems to stir slightly and reach out a hand, grasping about the sheets, Caleb submits and walks over, taking clawed fingers in his own. She soothes, humming groggily and mumbling something about “my boy” as she drifts off once again. He can’t say no to that, so it is with only slight hesitance that he lays down next to her and wraps his arms around her figure once more. It’s comforting, and despite his racing thoughts, Caleb feels himself drifting off with her.

Once again, he counts the seconds until he is gone.

_Eins, zwei, drei, vier, fünf, sechs…_

* * *

He wants to tear her to pieces with his own hands. He isn’t strong, but something is making him strong. Her skull cracks against the wall, and blood trickles down behind the point of impact. He drops her in a lump on the floor and stares. She twitches. His lips twitch into a smile.

He admires his work.

* * *

Again, he is sitting upright, heart pounding in his chest. Nott shifts beside him, and he holds his breath, hoping he hasn’t disturbed her. When he can hear another soft snore, Caleb relaxes a bit, but he is far from relaxed. His head feels heavy again, and his hands are trembling in his lap. He’s afraid to look at Nott, because he knows what will happen if he does. He doesn’t want to watch her die by his hands again.

It’s three twelve, but it takes all his concentration to process that fact. He had barely slept an hour, and now the sensation was back. Clearly the spell was not going to fade so easily, and clearly its impact was more frequent than he had initially thought.

Caleb stares down at his arms, far less grisly than they had been an hour ago as they scab over, but still not pretty. He feels a thrum of delight in his chest at the thought of digging into his flesh once again, but he stops himself from acting, which only makes his headache worsen. _Scheiße._

What is he going to do? He can’t hurt them, but if he continues to hurt himself, then the others will surely notice, and he doesn’t want to talk to them about the nature of the spell or the fact that he had sat up in the night and pondered such terrible things. He can’t wake them up, they need to rest, and there’s always the chance that the spell will fade before morning comes and they won’t have to waste a spell on him because some pathetic street mage so easily got into his head.

Caleb knows one thing—he can’t stay here.

For the second time that night, he quietly exits the room, this time dressing fully and latching his book holsters and satchels back into place on his form. Rather than approaching the washroom as before, however, Caleb turns the opposite direction and makes his way downstairs into the tavern part of the inn. An older halfling man is dozing at the counter, and the room is completely empty other than one weary looking traveler who appears to be passed completely out at the table closest to the entrance. Caleb grits his teeth against the throbbing behind his eyes and situates himself in a corner far from the other two inhabitants of the room.

He normally would have ordered a drink to keep him warm while studying, but the thought of waking up the barkeeper isn’t very appealing, and Caleb decides that he would prefer to be without the conscious presence of other beings. So instead, he pulls out a book he had purchased just that afternoon and begins to read—or tries to, that is. The words blur together, and even when he resorts to drawing his index finger along the words to keep his place, he still starts and restarts the first page over and over again. He attempts spinning the dagger in his coat around in one hand, but it does nothing to help.

It’s no use. If he tries to glance at the halfling man behind the counter, he gets a horrible mental image of setting the inn up in flames and watching it crumble. If he thinks of his friends asleep in their rooms, he imagines sneaking in and stealing their breath in a number of ways. The blood pulsing in his ears is deafening, the throbbing almost darkening his vision entirely. Almost totally unconsciously, Caleb begins to squeeze the blade of his dagger tight in one palm, not even recognizing the way his nerves light up and blood begins to dribble from where his hand rests on the table. Once again, as if a bucket of cold water had been dumped on him, the fog in Caleb’s mind eases with the presence of pain. He exhales shakily. It’s three twenty-nine.

 _Damn it all_ , he knows what he has to do. Caleb knows what must be done to keep himself from breaking and hurting those dearest to him, but how can he do something so sinister and hide it away from his friends? He knows their hearts, should he tell them what’s happened, they’ll only blame themselves for not noticing, that or they’ll start asking questions, and gods forbid the _questions_. He clutches the blade tighter in his grasp, welcoming the way his concentration improves despite the searing coming from his palm.

They’ll _see_ that. He has to stop doing this where they can see it. He looks at his arms. Not awful, not pretty either, but they’ll likely just assume he had a nightmare like usual. They’ll note that he isn’t bothering to mention it and therefore they won’t mention it either. His hand, however… well, Caleb supposes he can hide the scar that will surely form with his black glove. But what is he supposed to do when the urge keeps returning?

It isn’t long before the headache subsides completely, and he feels normal again. Which isn’t even comforting now, because what if it comes back? Caleb decides that he isn’t going to sleep any tonight anyway and begins to consciously keep track of time. He guesses there must be an hour between these spells (ha), and he finds that he has thought correctly when precisely an hour from the second his mind cleared before, the headache begins to return.

Before another horrifying scene can play out in his mind, Caleb grips the dagger again and feels blood begin to pool in his palm. His head remains clear, and the action brings comfort, but also disappointment. He doesn’t feel any regret about cutting himself open over and over again, but he does feel irritated at the fact that this is something he’s going to have to deal with for a while now. He’s almost apathetic to the pain he’s causing himself, but he shudders at the thought of feeling such a strong desire to hurt something— _anything_ , even his friends. This is a sacrifice he is willing to make, but he needs to be careful.

The night continues like this, and it isn’t long before Caleb is almost _comfortable_ with the sensation as he reads his book, gripping the dagger when he needs to. It is at six forty-four that he decides he better clean up and is mortified to see a rather large stain of blood drying into the wood table. He drops the dagger and waves his non-mangled hand, and with the flick of his wrist, the blood seems to evaporate and disappear, leaving the table clean and none the worse for wear. It thankfully appears that no blood has gotten on his clothing, so he packs his things away and makes his way to the washroom once more.

He cleans the wound on his palm. It’s a revolting sight, but Caleb has seen worse, and it looks much more, well, _neat_ than the uneven scratches on his arms. He can easily hide the multiple gashes with his glove, and the others will not notice. Perhaps he won’t even need to pester Caduceus or Jester with wasting their magic on him—if this is the worst of it, he can manage until the spell wears off, which _has_ to be soon.

Right?

Despite having slept far from a decent amount, Caleb does not find himself groggy in the slightest. Tired, yes, but he can’t imagine falling asleep any time soon. This is good, he concludes, as there is a long day of travel ahead of them and he would be of no use passed out on the journey. Caleb doesn’t think about the pit forming in his stomach as he imagines drifting off on the cart only to awaken from another murderous nightmare.

It’s fine. They’ll be fine.

After cleaning his dagger up as best he can, Caleb makes his way down to the tavern once more and orders a breakfast befitting the Mighty Nein. Ever so slowly, he watches each of his friends make their way downstairs one at a time. Caduceus and Fjord are the first to make their way downstairs, having most certainly awoken early to share a morning meditation with the Wildmother. Caleb is usually the first member of the Nein to be up in the morning, so the two are not surprised to see him there with a meal ready to be eaten. Fjord greets him with a nod and smile, and Caduceus seems especially warm as he places a large and gentle hand on his shoulder as he passes by and sits in the seat across from Fjord.

“Good morning, Mister Caleb,” the firbolg rumbles in his deep but soothing voice, “Did you sleep well last night?” Caleb offers the smallest of smiles, but he fears it may have come out as more of a grimace as he flexes his hand now hidden by the glove.

“I feel rested enough,” he responds vaguely, which isn’t a lie, and Caduceus doesn’t seem to question that.

Not long after that, Nott stumbles downstairs, still groggy, but immediately plops down next to Caleb and squeezes his hand. The gloved hand. He tries his best to not visibly wince at the pain the shoots out from his palm as he weakly squeezes back. She seems to notice this, and she looks like she’s going to say something, but Caleb pushes a plate towards her and she quickly forgets at the sight of a delicious breakfast.

Jester, Beau, and Yasha are the last three to come down, and they do so right as Caleb begins to sense the return of the now too-familiar headache that plagued him for the entire night. He swears internally and pointedly refuses to make eye-contact with any of his friends. He doesn’t want to see what he knows he will see if he does. He responds with a grunt whenever he’s spoken to as the others sit down. Jester hops into the seat right next to him and gives him an energetic grin.

“Good morning, Cay-leb!” she cheers, pinching his cheek playfully. Caleb would normally smile and awkwardly pull away from her enthusiasm, but the scene that plays out in his mind immediately upon her physical contact doesn’t allow that. _He grabs her wrist and flames engulf her soft blue skin—_

“ _Ja_ , hello Jester,” he says softly, hoarsely. His hands are shaking again, and he presses them into his pants to make it less noticeable. His head is getting foggier with every passing second and he can’t tell the time. She’s talking to him, but he can’t hear. His ears are ringing as he stares at the wall.

He reaches into his coat, grabs the dagger, and lightly slides the blade across his ribs in a way that it will look like he is scratching his side or something. Everything refocuses. Jester finishes talking, and he recognizes that she was thanking him for the plate of pastries he had purchased for her to eat. He smiles against the burning in his side.

“It’s nothing,” he says, then fakes a yawn with one hand as he slices into the skin once again. Jester’s attention turns to the other members of the Nein, and Caleb is thankful. However, Nott is watching him, glancing at his side where his hand has been rested for the past few moments. The layers of his clothing seem to have prevented a blood stain from forming on his coat, but that’s not something he wants to risk. He excuses himself to the washroom, walking hastily as he feels eyes follow him.

 _Too close_ , he thinks as he lifts the shirt and pats down the thin cut with a washcloth. He’s got to be careful. With good fortune, this will be the last time the spell takes its effect on him, but if it isn’t, he needs to figure out a way to do this that won’t get him lectured. There are more important things to worry about than him, and he needs to handle this.

He feels fine once again despite the discomfort he detects in his arms, hand, and now side as well, so he returns to the others and joins the conversation, assuring Nott that he is fine and just wanted to wash up after breakfast—a flimsy lie considering he didn’t eat and doesn’t plan to.

As noon approaches, the Mighty Nein pay off any remaining tabs at the inn and leave a tip for good measure before heading on their way.

* * *

It’s a beautiful day in the Wildemount wilderness. The sun is shining brightly, but it isn’t hot, only pleasantly warm as the sound of hooves on cobblestone plays around them. The trees along the road provide shade for their eyes, and birds tweet and whistle from all sides.

Jester props herself up on the side of the cart, whistling back and practically squealing in delight when she gets an occasional response. Nott is busy sorting through a pouch of buttons on the floor, and Beauregard is stretched out with her eyes closed, hands behind her head as she rests propped against Yasha, who is currently holding a book and brushing fingers against a lovely purple flower that has been gently pressed between the pages. Fjord and Caduceus are up front, guiding the horses together.

Caleb sits in a corner away (or as far away as he can get in the small space) from the others, nose buried in a book. Most of the time. To his dismay, the spell has seemingly not worn off, as once an hour he feels his concentration break as a familiar urge crawls back to the surface. He can’t bear to look at the others now, even when the sensation isn’t present. Every glance causes a nightmare to play out in real-time. In the four hours and thirty-six minutes they’ve been on the road, Caleb has watched himself stab the dagger in his coat through Beau’s heart as she naps, he’s watched himself pull Jester by a horn in close and slit her throat as she looks on wide-eyed and in shock.

He’s set Caduceus’s long pink locks of hair up in flames, he’s disintegrated Fjord where he sits. By dusk, Caleb has killed them all in ways he couldn’t imagine their enemies attacking them. And every time the sensation comes, he finds some way to extinguish it. He chews on the inside of his cheek until it draws blood, he takes off his glove and discreetly squeezes the dagger until he can think clearly again, using a quiet spell to clean up his mess before the others can notice. At one point, when he can excuse himself to “use a washroom” in the forest, Caleb lights a flame in his hand and reaches beneath his sleeve, allowing his skin to blister and burn under a tight grasp. He’s thankful that there isn’t much of a smell to come with it.

When night falls, he’s just finished a new laceration across his palm when the group requests he set up the dome. Caleb does so as if nothing is the matter, smiling and laughing even when Beauregard and Jester joke around and light up the night with their humor. He sets his alarm spell, basks them in the soft amber glow of the dome, and joins them as they gather in the center to eat dinner and talk.

Caleb doesn’t eat. Again.

He feels oddly lightheaded in a way that definitely isn’t related to whatever this godsforsaken spell is, and he feels too nauseous to keep anything other than water down. He shouldn’t be experiencing drastic blood loss or anything—he’s been careful to make sure nothing he does will take him out for the count. What good would he be to the others then?

But still, Caleb is sure that there are some repercussions for repeatedly slicing open one’s hand, even if he wraps it up tight every time. He counts himself lucky that the others haven’t noticed anything at all. He isn’t really doing anything wrong, though, right? They shouldn’t be upset—he’s protecting them after all, and saving their magic. Despite his self-assurance, Caleb can’t help but feel uneasy.

Nott does take notice of this, however. Like the concerned mother she is, she grabs his hand, and he has to suppress another flinch as it is even more tender than before. “Caleb, you haven’t eaten a bite all day that I’ve seen!” she exclaims with worried yellow eyes. “You need to eat something!”

Caleb pats her small hand in his own. “I ate this morning, Nott—” _Liar_. —“I am simply not very hungry today. It may have been what I had at breakfast. I promise to eat in the morning, _ja_?”

Nott doesn’t look impressed, but she glares up at him in a way that’s almost humorous with her being so small. She huffs and wags a finger at him. “Fine. But you better! I won’t have you passing out on us because you wanted to save food or whatever ridiculous reason is in that wonderful brain of yours.”

Caleb smiles at her, but Beau elbows him in the side. He’s thankful she doesn’t seem to notice his sharp intake of breath as she jabs right where he had dug his blade earlier that day.

“Yeah, man, you’re squishy as is. You’re not much good to us if you’re malnourished or something.” The monk is clearly joking with him based on her dorky grin, but Caleb laughs in a way that’s secretly far from humorless as he silently agrees with her.

She’s right. He definitely isn’t any good to them in a weakened state.

At ten twenty-three, Fjord stands and groans as he presses his hands against his back until it gives a satisfying pop. He looks down at the rest of the group, still sitting, drinking a fresh batch of tea that Caduceus has prepared for them, and raises an eyebrow.

“It’s getting late now,” he remarks, glancing at the roof of the dome where the sky should be. “We may as well go ahead and plan for our watches. Any takers?”

Caleb stands up instantly. He wobbles as he does, but the others don’t seem to notice. “I will take first watch,” he says, scanning the faces below him. Nott looks at him. She doesn’t just look, she _looks_ at him—through him. He doesn’t bother to give a reassuring smile, knowing she wouldn’t believe it were it genuine, and instead makes eye-contact with Fjord who’s nodding at him.

“Alright, I’ll take second watch then,” he agrees, and Caduceus grunts with a smile as he collects teacups.

“And I will take third.”

“Sounds good!” Jester cheers as she stands, clapping her hands together but giving a hearty yawn immediately after. “I’m like _really_ glad you guys wanted to take watch, because I totally could have if you needed me to, but I’m like _super_ tired and I probably wouldn’t have been the best person for the job, yanno?” She’s moving to lay down now, right between where Beauregard and Fjord would sleep. The others follow suit.

Caleb was extremely grateful, because he could feel the fog returning once more. His dagger was in his coat, and he looked suspicious enough keeping his glove on the entire evening and it was an actual miracle that no one had said anything about it. He couldn’t inconspicuously burn his arm under his sleeve with all of them right there because they’d surely smell the smoke or the burning flesh one, so he was stuck for the moment. The familiar ringing was making its way into his ears, and Caleb had to fight with all his being to maintain focus. Was it getting worse?

Finally, _finally_ , the others all lay down and go to sleep, and Caleb is left alone after a series of good nights and a kiss on the cheek from Nott. He stumbles for his coat and steps just outside the dome to collapse on his knees. He can’t even concentrate enough to cast a spell, so he fumbles to rip off the black glove and practically stabs the dagger into his now hideous palm.

That was a mistake, _that was a mistake_.

Caleb hisses when he realizes how deep he’s cut this time. Stupid, stupid, _stupid_. He’s no expert when it comes to the human body, but he does know a decent amount, and that definitely is _not_ good. Blood is pouring from the slash and the old slashes and that will need stitches. Oh gods, it needs stitches.

He curses out loud now, some in Common and some in Zemnian, under his breath. He thinks he starts to hyperventilate, but he can’t tell because everything is a blur and his hand is on fire and oh gods everything is burning. The fog is gone but it’s been replaced by smoke and it’s filling up his lungs and he can’t _breathe_ and he can hear screaming and _no, not now, please not now._ He can’t fall apart right now. He has to fix this. He has to handle this.

 _It’s not real,_ he tells himself desperately, pulling at his hair and only pulling the wound open further, matting blood into messy locks of red. _Well, it_ is _real but it’s just a memory and it isn’t important right now, you’ve got other things to worry about, you’ve got to fix this before—_

“Caleb?”

He freezes—well, he freezes as much as he can. He’s still trembling violently but he holds in his sporadic breaths to listen and _scheiße_. Beauregard.

“I—” _I’m fine_ , he tries to rasp, but the sound that comes out is wet and inhuman. Beauregard emerges from the dome.

“Hey, man, are you alright—holy sh—CALEB!”

He wants to tell her that it’s fine, he’s _fine_ , he can fix this, she doesn’t need to worry, but no words come out and he realizes what a mess he must look. The red liquid from his palm has streamed down his arm, and wait, did he scratch his arms again? The wounds from early this morning are open again and there’s so much blood, it takes him a minute to determine if the cloudiness in his head is from that godsforsaken spell or because he actually is dealing with serious blood loss.

Caleb hears her yelling for Caduceus and Jester as she pries his coat off him and swears under her breath when she sees the burns decorating his upper arms like grisly tattoos. “What the hell, man? What is this crap?” She’s not yelling, but it sounds like it against his pounding head, and he can hear the fury in her voice.

He tries to speak again, tries to move, but he can’t, and she’s holding him tight by the forearms just above where he’s clawed away his flesh. He jerks in her grasp, still stuck between the past and reality, and upon making eye contact with her he sets them both on fire and watches as they burn—

“ _Give me the dagger, Beauregard,_ ” he hisses, pulling harder, shutting his eyes to block out the horrible mental image. It lingers despite his best efforts and his head is _swimming_.

“Like hell!” She holds him tighter as he hears the shuffling of grass and someone stumbles out of the dome. They gasp in a horrified sound.

“Oh my god, Caleb!” Jester exclaims, dropping to her knees next to where he and Beau are on the ground and grabbing his arm to look in horror at the sight of his palm. “What happened to you?”

Caleb doesn’t respond, squeezing his eyes shut harder as one by one, he can hear the rest of the Nein making their way outside and seeing him in his pathetic state. Hot tears are rolling down his cheeks, but he can’t tell if they’re from pain or distress. Maybe both.

“What the hell happened?” He hears Fjord’s voice and hates the pitch it takes at the sight of him.

“Oh, _Caleb_.” Yasha sounds calm and horrified all at once.

“Oh dear…” Caduceus is on the ground next to him now.

But one voice breaks Caleb more than the others. “ _Caleb_!”

Nott’s voice is shrill as he’s ever heard it, and he is forced to open his eyes and watch. She’s scrambling towards him despite the protests of Jester and Fjord, but it has no effect as she clambers into his lap and grabs his face with clawed hands, looking at him with pure _terror_. He wants to speak, to say it’s okay, because she should not be worrying about him right now, but he’s cut off by his own cry of misery as he watches her neck snap in his mind’s eye, once again by his hands.

“The dagger,” he rasps, “ _Please_ , the dagger. Give me the dagger.” He’s begging. Pleading. He can’t watch anymore, he has to stop it.

Nott tries to tell him something, but a surge of adrenaline courses through his veins, and suddenly, Caleb feels like the strongest member in the group. He breaks free from Beau’s grip, pushes Nott off his knees, and spins away, falling onto his hands as he claws across the ground to get away. Before any of the others can react, there are flames in his good hand and he wraps it around his arm again, gasping at the searing heat and the horrible stench of burning flesh.

“No!” he hears Jester yell, and suddenly, he’s being lifted off the ground by giant muscles. Yasha. His mind won’t clear. It wasn’t enough. Why isn’t it enough? He has to keep trying—

“It’s okay,” her accent seems to hum, holding him tight against her chest and holding his arms down at his sides. The flames are out, but he wants them to come back. “Settle down. It’s okay, it’s just a memory.”

Caleb hisses like a feral cat. She’s _wrong_. “ _Nein_ , it _isn’t_. Put me down. _Put me down._ ”

“Caduceus, what’s _wrong_ with him?” Beau practically screams, and Caduceus looks just as confused. He looks into Caleb’s eyes sadly, and something about that causes him to go limp against the horrid images in his head and the screams and the agony.

“ _Bitte_ ,” he whispers in Zemnian, Common almost escaping him entirely, “ _Ich bitte dich. Bitte, mein Freund, ich will dich nicht verletzen._ ” Everyone just looks at him confused, sad, and scared. Caduceus continues to stare. Caleb’s mouth trembles as he tries to speak. “The spell. Please end the spell. I can’t—I’m not…” He shudders and something similar to but far more heart-wrenching than a sob escapes from his throat.

With this, Caduceus’s eyes soften, and he seems to understand. Caleb shuts his eyes as he hears the much larger man gently make his way over and rest two warm hands on his stinging shoulders. Just as he thinks another scene is going to play out in his mind, the much welcome sensation of healing magic washes over his body as Caduceus casts _Greater Restoration_.

Caleb feels his mind clear, feels arms release him to his feet, and then crumbles to the ground as his palm seals shut and the rips in his skin seem to do the same. The burns on his shoulders gradually cease to sting, and he knows that if he could look that the hideous patches of blisters would slowly be fading away back to soft pink skin. He shudders, curling in on himself. He wraps his arms around his body and shivers until he feels blades of grass scratching against his cheek and smells damp earth next to his nostrils.

The group is silent.

His mind is silent.

It feels like hours before anyone dares to speak. It isn’t, because Caleb knows it’s precisely four minutes and twenty-eight seconds, but it still feels that way, even as he keeps track. When they do, it’s unsurprisingly Beauregard.

“What. The. Hell,” is all she says. Caleb doesn’t respond, just stares at the grass and avoids all their gazes, but especially Nott’s.

Fjord clears his throat awkwardly. “Something tells me this wasn’t just a nightmare or flashback or… whatever crap we normally deal with.” Caleb almost laughs at that, but it comes out more like a “tch.”

Jester kneels and places a hand on his shoulder, causing him to tense. “Caleb…” Her voice is so gentle, so soft, like she’s scared if she talks too loudly that she’ll break him, and Caleb thinks he just might. He shuts his eyes and sighs shakily.

“…I am sorry…” he eventually whispers. No one says anything, expecting him to continue. He does. “That… mage from last night… he cast a spell on me. I don’t know what it is, but it—it made me…” He grits his teeth as his eyes water. “I wanted to _hurt_. I wanted to hurt _you_. Every hour, I had to do something, cause pain in some way, or I would just…”

He shudders. “It worked to do it to myself.” Jester cups his cheek as he finishes lamely and rubs a thumb across his face, wiping away an errant tear.

“And you didn’t _tell_ us?” Beauregard waves her arms weakly, staring down at him with a numb expression. He stays quiet. “Dude, we could have _helped_.”

Caleb sits up carefully now, and Jester tries to steady him as he does, but he pulls away from her. He doesn’t want her to touch him—he’s filth. He shakes his head and makes eye contact with Beau.

“It would have been fine. If I had been more careful, the spell would have ended, and you would not have had to waste your magic on me. You needed that in case things went awry. I was too reckless.” He laughs bitterly and looks to Caduceus. “Of course, I couldn’t even do something as simple as that right.”

“What are you saying?” Caleb glances at Fjord, who’s now standing closer and towering over him from where he sits on the ground. “You didn’t want to hurt us, so you, what, decide it’s better to hurt _yourself_?” There’s something in his expression that Caleb can’t read. He raises an eyebrow.

“Caleb, that’s seriously messed up,” Jester speaks from beside him, and he looks to her just as confused.

“ _Ja_ , maybe it is, but it isn’t as ‘messed up’ as hurting you all would be. At least I was willing to take the pain.” _At least I deserve it_.

He doesn’t say that last part out loud, but for some reason, Caleb gets the feeling that everyone heard it, nonetheless.

“Mister Caleb,” Caduceus says, placing a hand on his shoulder, “If you did not want to hurt us, then you should not have hurt yourself.”

“Yeah, we don’t want to see you suffering any more than we want ourselves to suffer,” Yasha adds softly, looking at him in such a gentle way for such a large woman. There’s a murmur of agreements among the party, but one voice is absent.

Caleb looks at Nott, standing so close but seeming so far away. Her hands are clasped together, there are tears rolling down her cheeks, and she’s staring at him with large yellow eyes full of heartbreak, her mouth slightly agape. His expression softens considerably.

“Nott…” he starts, but she steps closer and shakes her head rapidly, closing her eyes and allowing more tears to fall. He reaches out to her. “Do not cry, _Liebste_. Please. There is nothing for you to cry for.”

This only makes her cry harder as she cups his face in her little hands again, thin lips trembling. “Do you love us, Caleb?”

He’s taken aback by her question. He hesitates to respond for a moment, mouth opening and closing, before he quietly responds. “ _Ja_. Yes. Of course, I do, _Liebling_. Of course.”

She laughs humorlessly. “Would you agree with me if I did what you just did, then? Would that be okay with you?”

“Nott—”

“Answer me, Caleb.”

He exhales through his nose. “No. But you are a far better person than me, Veth. All of you are. You deserve every good thing this world has to offer.” He runs a hand down her cheek and wipes away a tear.

Nott huffs. “But so do _you_ , Caleb.”

He shakes his head.

“I am not—”

He’s cut off by possibly the tightest hug he has ever received. Nott wraps her arms around his neck, burying her face in his shoulder and running claws through his hair soothingly. He stops and goes limp, letting her embrace him as he stares at the ground. Not long after, he feels another set of arms and a cute nose nuzzling his cheek, Jester’s horns brushing the back of his head. Then there’s Beau, one arm draped lazily over his shoulders, but somehow it still feels like a full embrace. Fjord falls in next, his arms going around the entire group, and Yasha is right beside him. Finally, Caduceus envelops them all with his huge arms, wrapping them up tight in a true group-hug. Caleb can feel locks of pink hair falling over his face, which he’s sure is red from embarrassment of the close proximity of all his friends.

However, something about the feeling of all their chests rising and falling against him brings a wave of peace—a sensation he certainly hasn’t felt over the last twenty-four hours. This is an experience that Caleb chooses to not count the seconds of, instead desiring to let himself imagine that it goes on forever and simply never ends. He doesn’t let his brain pester him about how he doesn’t deserve this—he knows he doesn’t, but he wants to be selfish just this once.

It’s almost as if the group never stops hugging, because once they are all back in the dome, they’re all curled up together on the ground and still held close. Caleb is in the center, seemingly the heart of all their affection, and Nott is wrapped around his arm. Caduceus takes first watch, sitting upright with his legs crossed, and Caleb is using his lap as a pillow. The firbolg hums a comforting tune that lulls them all to sleep. Jester is right beside Nott, but the goblin girl is so small that she may as well be curled up right beside Caleb. Her hand is resting on his chest stretched across Nott. Leaning against Caduceus, Fjord sleeps upright, his lap acting as a pillow for Jester. Yasha is on the opposite side of Caduceus, also asleep sitting upright and resting her head against Caduceus as well. Beauregard is half using her lap as a pillow, but is mainly holding onto Caleb, one arm tucked beneath his neck and the other stretching to touch Jester’s hand on his chest.

Normally, Caleb would feel suffocated. He can’t exactly escape the pile they’re in, and if something were to go wrong, it would be extremely difficult for any of them to be prepared to strike back quickly. Somehow, though, Caleb finds that he isn’t bothered by this. Instead, he feels… comfortable. Safe. He’s protecting them with his alarm and his dome, and they’re protecting him by boxing him in with their love and affection for one another.

Even if he doesn’t deserve it, they for some reason think he does, and who is he to go against what they think? So, he closes his eyes, allows himself to fall into a deep sleep. He doesn’t bother to count the seconds it takes, because once again, who cares? He’d like to imagine that these few quiet moments last for all eternity. Caduceus’s gentle humming; Nott’s breath on his bicep; Fjord’s angled features highlighted under the amber glow of the dome; Jester’s cute little snores near his ear; Yasha’s warmth; Beau’s inelegant sprawl and the drool dripping from her mouth.

Caleb smiles as he drifts off.

He won’t hurt this family. Not if he can help it.

**Author's Note:**

> Pernicious Infliction:
> 
> Spell Level: 6  
> Casting Time: One action  
> Range/Area: 150 ft  
> Components: V, S, M *  
> Duration: Instantaneous  
> School: Enchantment  
> Attack/Save: INT/WIS  
> Damage/Effect: Psychic
> 
> You target the mind of a creature you can see within range, attempting to twist its subconscious desires. The target must make an Intelligence saving throw.
> 
> On a failed save, the creature will not immediately recognize that it has been affected. Within six hours of the spell being cast, the creature must make a Wisdom saving throw. If failed, the creature is overwhelmed with the urge to inflict three or more hit points of damage on any living creature it can see. Until the creature acts on the urge, it is disadvantaged on all Intelligence and Wisdom checks, and for every hour it does not act, suffers 3d6 psychic damage. Self-inflicted pain can also satisfy the urge.
> 
> The creature must repeat the saving throw once an hour. If it succeeds, the spell ends.
> 
> The spell can also be ended by Greater Restoration, Heal, or Wish.
> 
> * - (a broken shard of glass and three drops of the spellcaster’s own blood)
> 
> I hope you guys enjoyed! There's more CR where that came from, too! Also, if you'd like to write something based around this spell, PLEASE DO AND PLEASE LET ME KNOW! I'm really happy with the concept of this spell and I would literally LOVE to see other people using it and tormenting Caleb with it. If you want to write something based around this, please let me know so I can read it! It would absolutely thrill me! Love you guys! <3

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Insanity](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27659801) by [TherapyBard](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TherapyBard/pseuds/TherapyBard)




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